


These Violent Delights

by wrekingz



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcoholism, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Light drug use, M/M, Shameless Smut, don't worry nothing major, italian nights spent crying under the stars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-03-26 13:32:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13858791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrekingz/pseuds/wrekingz
Summary: The beauty about those times, Louis knows now,  was its immersive nature. He’ d been suspended in a lust filled daze in which reality was but a disruption to normalcy, that being an endless summer in which anything was possible.  Skin so milky and relenting, he could reach out and touch as he pleased. To have it stolen from his grasp so viciously. . .perhaps that is what made the heartache most intense, in the end.In 1964, Ravenna Italy is in an age of fast cars, fast love, and fast youth. Louis Tomlinson, who is visiting the Italian countryside with his family is keen on indulging in all the desires of summer with his boys, Niall and Liam, seizing the day in reckless abandon. What he doesn’t suspect, however, is that very indulgence to be found in the green saucers of Harry Styles, beautiful and willing, yet completely unattainable.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from that Lil' old play Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare. 
> 
> Wooo, so it's done! I've been working on this story for a few months now and putting it out into the world is slightly terrifying but more exciting than anything. Like giving birth but not really. Either way, I've held onto this baby for long enough! And so I give you These Violent Delights.
> 
> The time period of this fic is both the 60s and 80s (you'll see what I mean once you start reading it) so I've littered the chapters in allusions that the keen eye is sure to pick up. This installment is a prologue and so obviously I'll be continuing on with the plot in later chapters. I cannot promise that all these locations and names of various cafes and clubs and sights are correct, as I merely researched some things and didn't bother besides that.  
> Anyways, and so we beat on! Boats against the current and allathat. . .hope you enjoy!
> 
> You can find me at my tumblr, username wrekingz

_ Summer, 1964 _

 

It was a humid night, with the long grass shards tickling his ankles and the moon like a watchful orb in the sky when Louis Tomlinson learned a lesson that would sway him for the rest of his life—that Summer is the cruelest season to love. It’s sense of forever ensnares unwilling prospects in its palm, makes one believe that good will outwin bad and love can, in fact, conquer all. 

 

Eighteen year old Louis is a sweaty mess of floppy hair and an open button down whipping past him like sails. His breath is being pulled from his lips roughly by an unrelenting, vengeful cold air, his arms pumping, steps pounding, heart stuttering. His old, ratty converse are getting even dirtier as they bound onto the dirt road, pushing a tide of dirt into his wake. With a final thrust of his fist, his hand reaches out. 

 

_ Why does my heart go on beating?  _

 

There, in the moonlight, a single pearl hand lifts itself toward him, rings glinting in the faint light, reaching and catching air every time.

_ Why do these eyes of mine cry? _

 

“Louis!” the voice belonging to the hand calls. “Louis! Please!” 

 

“I can’t go on!”

 

“Try!” 

 

Louis feels his tears burning at his eyes, feels them whipping across his face something fierce as his steps start to die out, as he starts to trip and stumble on pebbles. The car only seems to go faster, and the voice it carries with it seems to sound farther and farther away. 

 

_ Don’t they know it's the end of the world? _

 

Its blue body glints in the moonlight, and etches itself in his mind; that ‘56 Chevrolet Bel Air. Once filled with loud cackles and streams of ribbon and pearl and  _ happiness  _ now transforming into a hearse before Louis’ very eyes, carrying with it his heart as it thumps dead in the passenger side. 

 

_ I’m here, yes I am. Alive and breathing and it is all really happening  _ he thinks _. _ It feels then, as though the universe is in utter control, and Louis no longer has the will to fight it. 

 

With a final push, it all happens quickly. His palm fits into the hand reaching out, something cold being pressed into the soft tissue, before a multitude of things—time, the universe, the magic that happens with the breaking of hearts—pulls the hand away, and Louis drops to his knees, air pushing itself out harshly against the dirt, arms flailing in a pitiful attempt to break his fall. 

 

He hears a final, “Louis!” and the convertible rounds a corner, gone forever. 

_  
_ _ It ended when you said goodbye. . . _

 

Louis knows it is a joke, now. Can’t help but feel disillusioned by Shakespeare, Keats and Blake, who all promise in their words the beauty of love and how enrapturing it is. Only now, years later, can Louis say that while love has been good to him, it left him in a whisper of chocolate curls and a teasing glimpse of a pearl hand, slipping out of his reach, with only a green emerald in its wake. 

 

No, love isn’t beautiful. It is perverse. It has changed him. 

 

xx 

Present Day, 1981

His day goes as follows now: 

 

He wakes with Lucy pressed against his side, a beautiful Golden Retriever, eleven in age but five at heart, and takes her on a walk beside the river behind his estate. It’s a beautiful stone palace, remodeled from old Italian ruins and made anew. It’s a large thing, a manor of sorts that curved this way and slanted that way. It sits idly, not too far from the Italian Riviera, but immersed in expansive greenery so whenever the urge strikes, Louis can go into town, leash in hand, content to bask in the sunlight that peeks over decaying roofs decorated in growing clematis, honeysuckle, wisteria.

 

While Lucy rushes through rose bushes and jumps, black nose to the sun, trying to catch butterflies behind the Italian chateau, Louis clips at the stems of flowers, waters and nurtures them on. It’s nice to know that his hands are capable of encouraging life, that without him these flowers would surely die.

 

In moments of reflection, such as the present, his mind takes him back to that cruel night, the dirt trailing in rivets behind the blue Chevrolet Bel Air rushing steadfast away, taking with it his semblance of Summer Love. He snips again and misses the stem by a centimeter, cuts the peach skin of his fingertip. Louis watches the blood drip and fall on the white rose bush, thinks it awfully poetic. 

 

The day goes quite fast after that. He meets up with Niall and Zayn at a small bar after teaching a room full of students about the importance of literature and the words of all the authors that have lied to him, the stars and lights twinkling above them, people milling in and out of the cramped space as the three friends clink glasses together and spill truths into the air afterward. 

 

He teaches at a liberal arts university in the town over to a raucous class of Political Science majors, the girls in their faux-gold earrings, silk garments and 80s Cindy Crawford hair, the guys weighed down in their seats under pounds of hair-gel. Western pop culture brought with it a surge of sequins and colors and everyday Louis had to dust glitter off the desks for the next class he taught, and the class after that and the class after that. . .

 

Zayn was going on about another one of his exploits and Louis delighted in conversation not centered on his own conquests. 

 

Sometimes he comes home with someone and sometimes he returns only to Lucy, the two of them pressed close while he scratches behind her ear and reads, and he carries himself to bed, sheets bound tight around him. Perhaps to give a false sense of security, closeness. Perhaps because the days seem much colder lately. 

 

And the so it goes. And goes, and goes, and goes…

 

Until Sunday night rolls around.

 

Louis’ in the kitchen, a soft song cackling from the record player on the table, Skeeter Davis’,  _ End of the World ,  _ his worn copy of  _ Plato's Republic  _ atop a multitude of student essays sitting beside it. He gave Agata the week off; he was barely home in the evenings and felt uncomfortable with the idea of leaving her in the huge chateau alone, tending to a ghost. Oftentimes he’d come home to find her in the sitting room, a bowl of assorted fruit beside her as she watched reruns of  _ Dynasty  _ on the television. There’s only so much cleaning up you can do for one man and his mutt. 

 

The kitchen smells ambrosial where Louis is pushing a soft mound of pasta around in sauce and basil, cigarette limp in the corner of his mouth. Lucy has got her snout stuffed in her food before her head suddenly perks up, and out comes a bark, startling Louis so that he turns to check on her.

 

“Lucy?” 

 

The Golden Retriever rushes out of the room, barking all the while toward the front of the house. It is only then that Louis deciphers the sound of a car running outside, a door shutting. His brow perks from behind his glasses and he lowers the stove, wiping his hands on a cloth and dropping it on the counter. 

 

Louis walks through the hall, feet padding on the marble, hand tucked in pocket of his trousers. Once he reaches the front doors, Lucy barking and scratching the windows beside them, he pushes his hair off his forehead and looks through the small hole out into the front yard. 

 

On the driveway that encircles the fountain in front, Louis makes out a black vehicle and a lean body in a lemon stained suit, luggage sitting on the ground beside the man’s heeled black shoes. Louis cannot make out who it is, but certainly he’d recognize a man with such a striking visage. He couldn’t make out his face either, because apparently the gentleman required shades despite the fact that it was dark out. His pale wrist lifted, touching the marble of the fountain, and his rings consequently glinted along the surface of the water, red and green, gold.

 

“Easy, girl, easy.  _ Lucy, détend mon chérie. _ ” Louis whispers, as if the man is in the house with them. Louis holds onto her collar, knowing how excited she can be in the presence of those she doesn’t know. He certainly doesn’t think the man would be fond of his mutt’s slobber on his expensive suit either. 

 

Unlocking the door, Louis pulls it open, the air bringing forth a gust of cold that sweeps through the house, causes the blinds to quiver and an overall unease to enter the home. The emerald encased in a tight band around Louis’ ring finger glints under the moonlight. 

 

Louis steps out onto the stone steps, raises a hand to his forehead to look through the harsh headlights. The wind chimes are sounding, bringing an eeriness into the moment. “Hello?!” he calls out into the night, the man abruptly turning to face him, running his hands down his pants suit. “Qui est-ce qui là-bas?” Lucy struggles against Louis’ grasp on her, and before he knows it, she’s set free, bounding toward the stranger. “Lucy!” Louis immediately cringes, watching Lucy’s dirty paws hold onto the man’s pants. However, what happens next surprises Louis.

 

The man falls to his knees, seemingly indifferent to the dirt amongst him, and scratches behind the dog’s ears, an easy laugh sounding from his mouth. The sound flits throughout the night, pockets itself in Louis’ ears. Louis pulls his dark brown clubmaster frames off his face and tucks it into his shirt pocket, walks down the steps, makes his way over to them. 

 

“Excuse me? And who would you be?” He reaches for Lucy’s collar. “Lucy, stop! I’m sorry about this, she gets awfully excited meeting...strangers.” 

 

Louis is busy pulling Lucy toward him, rubbing a comforting palm on her head, way too busy, in fact, to notice how the man’s breathing has labored, his gaze unwavering on him. Finally, Lucy circles herself between Louis’ legs, plopping down with her head nestled against his ankles, and he looks up to give his attention to the man. 

 

He stands slowly, and Louis catches his hands shaking. His hands, as though ivory, seem capable. More than capable to handle nerves, in fact, with their neatness and delicacy. Louis feels worry churn in his belly and his brows meet in concern. He instinctively feels the need to assuage the odd man whose come before his doorstep as though a patron of bad news. 

 

“Hey, are you alright?” His hands reach out and touch the man’s forearms to perhaps steady him. The fabric of the suit is soft and warm, his hold causes the material to ripple in his grasp. 

 

A moment of silence persists. 

 

“Sir?”

 

“ _ Have you ever wondered what spring is like on mars?” _

 

It takes but a moment before Louis realizes what is being said to him and who is saying it. He finds his mind spinning then, to a halt, his brain hitting the side of his skull in result of the momentum it had built up to that point. Skeeter Davis’ voice lulls on in the dead of the night, the lights within the house illuminating the two bodies before the bubbling fountain, as though showering them with the warmth that the night doesn’t provide, suspended above reality, as though two ghosts with a singular pulse.

 

The moon rests heavy in the sky again, as it did that fateful night, and so do the words in Louis’ mouth; malleable, they sit stiff on his tongue, wedged between the muscle and the roof of his mouth.

 

His lips long to form the words they’ve always held true, and if there was a strand of disbelief before, all evidence of it is expunged when delicate fingers push those lens into chocolate curls and blue eyes find green. With a soft exhale as though that voice had been caught in the midst of time forever, a murmur of  _ Lou?  _ winds itself into the night air. 

 


	2. Chapter I. Fire and Powder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These violent delights have violent ends  
> And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,  
> Which, as they kiss, consume. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I apologize for posting this first chapter much later than I intended to, but at times things come up in the most annoying manner and have to be dealt with. But I found the time to crank out this baby (finally). Thank you to those of you who comment/leave kudos or enjoy reading TVD so far, I appreciate it so much! With that, I give you the first chapter. I’ve compiled down below the songs that resonated with me while I wrote this chapter as well as the songs mentioned in the chapter. I know that one of the tracks doesn’t fit in the time period I’ve written this fic, but goddamnit, it fit too well to leave out. There’s a tinge of angst but only if you squint. I can’t promise I won’t throw some more in throughout the story though (i’m a slut for angst like it’s inevitable that i’ll write it myself in my fics to make myself and you guys cry) but this chapter isn’t teww bad I don’t think. You can find my messy ass at wrekingz.tumblr.com. Cheers guys and happy reading!  
> Tracks: Fleetwood Mac- Gypsy  
> Fleetwood Mac- Everywhere  
> Toto- Africa (no i’m not kidding, sometimes these things happen)  
> Lana Del Rey- Art Deco  
> Lana Del Rey- Florida Kilos  
> Sky Ferreira- You’re Not the One  
> Tracks in the chapter:  
> The Rolling Stones- Sympathy for the Devil  
> Paul Anka- Puppy Love, Put Your Head on my Shoulder  
> Cigarettes After Sex- K

_ “He who dares not grasp the thorn. . . _

_ should never crave the rose.” _

_ Anne  Brontë, The Narrow Way  _

_ xx  _

It was a humid Saturday night, 1964 in Ravenna Italy, and I was on fire. 

 

Laughter was sounding through the damp air as the three of us, my friends Niall and Liam included, ran through the Italian streets, the heels of our oxfords pounding against the stone. In the near distance, the discotheque encapsulated the surrounding blocks with roaring chords and drums, nestled like Woodstock in the branched out buildings. The Rolling Stones’  _ Sympathy for the Devil  _ sounded like a siren and man, I was gone. Full of unbridled energy, I crashed into the barrier of bodies ambling outside the club and was sucked into a vacuum of impenetrable lust.

 

When I say lust, I mean it too: there were couples groping and swapping spit like no one’s business. I linked arms, myself in the middle and my boys beside me, as we snaked through the bodies jumping around. There were hips thrusting into each other and strands of hair flying like wings. The air was even warmer inside and suffocating. Girls were giggling and stumbling in their booties, necklaces glinting and eyeshadow intense pinks and blues, liner smeared. Boys were running after skirts like dogs or barreling into each other, booze sloshing in their glasses. 

 

There was a different kind of lust about that time besides the allure of girls and boys and that special place in between, too. Lust seized all desire, all urge. That was what it was like to be young and full of love and weed as a teenager in the 60s. We had so much to give and nowhere to give it. That’s why I couldn’t judge the animalistic prowl with which guys and girls equally lingered around the edges of the dance floor, because if I wasn’t so shit faced already, I’d be one of them. 

 

“God! Youth and excess, gentleman! And excess and excess and. . . geez, I love women.” Niall whistled, watching a brunette jump around in the center of the dancefloor, her skirt riding up higher the more she thrashed around. His blue orbs turned to saucers. I watched my friend turn into a leper before my very eyes, foaming at the mouth. I rolled my eyes and met the gaze of Liam who was equally as amused. 

 

“We just got here and you’re already chasing tail!” Liam yelled.

 

“Don’t be a bore, Li! I thought we were here for a righteous time? I’m getting blitzed and getting me some tail!” Niall cackled, disappearing into the mass of bodies. Without a second word, I shrugged and motioned for Liam to enter the masses with me. 

 

The day felt like I’d been waiting for that night to come, even if I didn’t know it at the time. Back then, I spent my mornings peeking through rooms laden with ancient artifacts in my family’s vacation home, a beautiful Italian chateau nestled in the rolling hills of Italy’s countryside, regal and glinting where it was situated within the gardens. During the day, I avoided the peril of my sisters' arguments and endeavors, instead entertaining myself by never being alone otherwise. I didn’t know how to be back then, alone that is. I always needed someone else’s energy to feed off. It’s funny how I know now how dangerous that can be. I almost wish I would’ve known that then.

 

So that meant I was always with Liam and Niall, or one or the other. By night I was out and up to mischief with my two favorite boys, Niall, who I’d brought along with from London and Liam, a fellow Englishman visiting Italy as well. We casted shadows in the streets kissing pretty Italian girls at corners and throwing expensive fabric into the air to go skinny dipping late at night. 

 

We’d been lying in the grass behind the grand chateau I got to call home for the next few months, passing a spliff Niall brought and the rum I nicked from his father’s bar. It tasted like shit, and if anything we passed the putrid liquid to each other for something to do when our lips weren’t holding the wrinkled paper. Mid-swig, I’d sat up to the sound of music thumping deep past the wooded area beside my home and soon, we’d been off just like that, to seize another opportunity at fun. 

 

And there we were. 

 

We’d been at it for a while, scuffing up our shoes as we danced around with tight grips on girls, drinks, and youth. The grin that started off on my lips that night had yet to disappear, dancing around with reckless abandon and pure unadulterated joy. I wasn’t as blown as my friends, and that was a problem. I peeled myself from the bare back of a girl with wild curls, full lips, hips and an even fuller cup before making my way to the bar after a Beatles track ended. 

 

Tan skin shining in a thin sheen of sweat and fringe stuck to my forehead, I was dazed. Ordering a malt at the bar, I’d pulled out a cig from the pocket of my expensive, and by then, limp-collared button down, lighting it as the music changed to a slow song. 

 

I recognized it right away: Lottie’s obsession with Paul Anka made it virtually impossible for me to escape the young singer’s crooning. As I turned where I stood, malt now beside my elbow, my eyes wandered around the dancefloor. People previously groping each other, Niall and Liam included, were now courting girls in corners or sat at tables swaying to the song, others dancing closely. Among them, I found a shock of cream against the dark backdrop of the atmosphere.

 

It was man. Or a boy. A man-boy? Surely those existed. Either way, my gaze had found him swaying to the music, a man with blonde hair pressed against his back, and I couldn’t have looked away even with the chance of divine intervention, I suspect. His hair seemed to be longer than the guy’s, who looked to be leeching off his neck painfully, hair curling around his pale face and his mouth in a perpetual “O’. He was lost in the music, lost in himself, and with him I found myself reeling. 

 

Some part of me says to look away. What am I doing, staring at a guy like that? But I don’t. I simply puffed once more on my cigarette, malt forgotten by my side, as the smoke lifted around me elusively so that only my cerulean eyes could be seen searching those across the room. When  _ Puppy Love  _ slows to a stop, the boy pulled at the hands wrapped like vines around his cream shirt, the guy behind him visibly disappointed, and that’s when he sees me.

 

I felt my breath pulled from my lips and by mistake, I inhale the same smoke I’d previously released so that I was choking in no time. I don’t know if I was more appalled at my embarrassing moment or the amused grin that spread along the mouth of the boy across the room. 

 

Surprised with my momentary boldness (serves me right staring so hard) I turned back around, resting my elbows on the bar and putting out my cig. My heart was still thrashing against my ribcage when I took a long gulp of my malt until it's gone. Face burning up, I felt like the fires of hell were licking up my skin; I needed to get out. 

 

Weaving through the bodies, I made my way out the discotheque and back into the Italian air’s embrace. As though a twisted turn of fate, the same boy from prior was already outside, in all of his lanky beauty, leaning against a vacated table. The way his eyes met mine made it feel as though he was waiting for me to find him there. 

 

He had chocolate curls, the locks pushed behind one ear and tumbling to his shoulders. The V of his chest was exposed by his billowy silk shirt, tucked into his dress pants, black heeled boots adorning his feet. The moon glinted off of his milky skin and he’s, dare I thought at the time, beautiful. 

 

Adonis in the dark Italian street, shining against the backdrop of a twinkling city.

 

The thought feels preposterous the moment it enters my mind. A man, beautiful? What kind of wicked games were my psyche playing on me? Another Paul Anka song croons on from inside, infiltrating the air where we were, two boys eyeing each other. I stepped down and walked towards the side of the street, beside the stranger. It was surprisingly quiet for this area, particularly when there are partygoers roaming the streets, but the night persisted in an intimate nature, one that made the boy look away shyly when I met his gaze again. 

 

“I’m Louis.” I found myself saying in a sure tone, though I felt anything but. I reached a hand out and was met with the gentle grip of the stranger, his rings glinting prettily under the moon’s shine. 

 

“Harry.” He offers back with a smile. He’s blushing, which, I know I’m a charmer, but I couldn’t think of anything I’d said or done to encourage such a reaction. 

 

When our hands pull apart, I dug my hand into my pocket and pulled out my Marloboros. I pull out a cigarette, the boy, Harry, tracing the movement with his eyes. “Would you like one?” I murmured. I don’t know why I felt the need to talk so softly. 

 

“I’m okay, thank you.” he shakes his head, his curls flowing with the motion. I hummed an ascent, pressed the cigarette to my lips. The quiet settled again, and I thought this was what it’d be. I’d stand there awkwardly puffing on my cig until I drew up the nerve to explain myself. I was concocting a solid reason behind my staring, but truth be told I couldn’t even figure out why I’d been ogling at him for so long myself. I didn’t know then in the way that I’d soon learn, that the boy had already begun lodging himself like a bullet into my chest, where he’d remain long after he’d be gone. 

 

I was about to pull out my lighter when I was stopped by a tender voice. 

 

“Have you ever danced with a guy before?” 

 

Track:  _ Cigarettes After Sex- K _

 

I pulled the cigarette from my lips and turned to where the voice came from. Harry was looking at me carefully, a coy smile playing on his lips. That blush is there again, on the apples of his cheeks and God, I ’d never seen eyes so green before. They rival the rolling hills of the Italian countryside I’d grown fond of since coming to Italy, put emeralds to shame and made Narcissus quake in envy. 

 

“What a silly question.” I rasped. 

 

“Why’s it so silly?” he tilted his head. 

 

“Well, I. . .of course I have. I dance all the time with my pals.” 

 

“I don’t mean as pals.” Harry whispered. His eyes were burning holes into me where we stood and I found that I needed to rest my weight on the pole beside me to deflect the sheer intensity of those eyes. “Have you ever  _ truly  _ danced with a guy??” his tone is seemingly as delicate as he is. 

 

I shake my head.  “No, can’t say that I have.”

 

“I figured as much since you were staring like I’d been caught with a gun to someone’s head back inside.” 

 

My brows draw and I felt my face heat up. I almost want to get defensive, but instead, I hold it together. “I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable. Bad habit, that, staring.” 

 

“I didn’t mind it.” he murmured back, mirth swimming in his orbs. I swallow around the pebble in my throat. 

 

“Well, I can’t say it was too bad of a sight.” I admit and where did this boldness come from? I want to blame it on my charm again. My mother told me I had too much of it and if I’d gotten anything besides my smarts and tan from my father, it was his charm. 

 

I knew better than to assume it was that, though. I was flirting in a way I did with girls, and I didn’t know what had come over me. 

“You wear everything you feel on your face.” Harry laughed, a crater denting his skin. “You look horrified. Do guys not dance together where you're from?”

“I don’t know where one would find guys dancing together like you two were anywhere.” He seems to catch the slight envy ( jealousy, maybe displeasure?) that I experienced watching their interaction, but he takes it for what it is and not what it could be misinterpreted as: a judgemental dick with a cig in his mouth. 

“Dancing is one of the more simplistic pleasures I think one could hope to enjoy.” he pulls his gaze away from mine to gaze around him. “There’s something freeing about losing yourself in a song, letting it take you where it pleases, where the singer wanted to take you. Don’t you think?” he turned back to me. 

I hum, nodding slowly, my lashes fluttering at a snail’s pace, as if my eyes can’t bear not sparing a look at Harry, my blinking subsequently delayed. I press my cigarette to my bottom lip and let it rest there. The hand that I’d reached for my lighter was still in my pocket, and I fiddled with the object. 

I stood stock still where I leaned against the sweaty pole as Harry invaded my space. His fingers meet mine and pull the cigarette from my grasp, tucking it behind his ear, all the while looking into my face as though testing the waters. How one can be so bold and so shy about it is a wonderment. I’d never felt a man’s touch so gentle. Boy? Man-boy. 

 

The soft, static voice of the song’s chorus is wafting around our heads, the heated air threatening to suffocate me where I was pinned before Harry. I wanted to reach out and touch, lips so plush and red, and devour skin. I suspect that a greater entity was behind my immense self-restraint. 

 

“Harry,” I rasped into the night. That was all I said for a moment before I reached down and wrangled some of that Tommo Courage I was known for, that’d managed to lose itself around this...this  _ boy _ , and spoke again. “Would you like to dance?”  

 

The city lights surround us as though a singular source of energy, enough to light up the whole block. Behind us were drunken cackles and whistling, but Harry paid it no mind and neither did I. 

 

“I’d love to.” 

 

I pushed myself off the pole then, standing straighter and more firmly to the ground. I align my body with him, and the thought crosses my mind,  _ do I approach a man the same as a woman? Is there a difference? _

 

I figured there’s no time for second-guessing and, as Anka croons on in the background, my hands move of their own accord. My fingers traced those of Harry’s, feeling the soft mounds of his palms, up his wrists until I pressed closer and wrapped my arms around the boy’s waist, holding him close with a hand to the small of his back. 

 

The toes of our shoes press against one another until Harry slides a leg between mine, and we began to sway.

 

_ Put your head on my shoulder. . .whisper in my ear, baby _

_ Words I want to hear, baby. . .tell me, tell me that you love me too. . . _

 

The song lulls us on and on, a universe winding itself between our bodies, two ghosts beneath the moon, swaying amongst vacated tables and crumbling infrastructure.

 

Up until this point, Harry’s palms had been pressed against my chest, and I hoped that the other boy couldn’t hear my heart thumping out of control. Harry slides his hands against the soft material of my dress shirt before wrapping his arms around my neck, dropping his head against my shoulder. It feels like the most intimate moment I’d ever experienced. It should be absurd; I’d laid in bed with the girls of my grade and even one of his neighbor’s daughter’s, Dorleen, more than enough times to know I was no virgintile, innocent youth. And yet, with this boy in my arms, a stranger, yet so trusting and pliant. . .I felt like I was holding a dove with open palms, willing it to stay in my hold. 

 

Harry smells like the sweetest fruit I’d never tasted and his eyes where they’d look into mine reminded me of the large, green bracts growing in his mother’s garden,  _ green zinnias _ . 

 

I found myself thinking back a few months ago when the roots had threatened to kill the orchids, unearthing the flowers from beneath the dirt, sprouting new zinnias in the wake of the dead orchids. Of all the thoughts to swarm my mind in such a moment, I found myself thinking back to the garden.

 

I believe Harry was like a green zinnia. He was unearthing me from my usual, content life and I didn’t even know I needed an awakening. His limbs were extracting me from what I’d come to accept as his life, and he’s killing it slowly. Weakening it, as those ruthless zinnias had done to his mother’s precious orchids, sucking the very life from me only to replenish it with his own. Harry isn’t as bad as those zinnias, though. Because unlike those zinnias,  Harry can also assuage the pain with the nectar I could taste between the folds of his lips. 

 

Our swaying stopped as I’d tasted Harry, pressing him between my body and the side of the building. The music was causing the wall to feel as though it was pulsing against us where our bodies met, but the thudding in my chest rivaled that in the air. It’s like something had burst into the atmosphere, a shock to the air that I felt deep in my core.

 

Spurred on by that Tommo Courage that wound itself like a noose around my veins, I tongued my way into the boys’ mouth and a surprised intake of breath comes from Harry. I almost wondered if I’d gone too far, but then Harry pressed the toe of his boot down onto my oxford and opened his lips once more as though an invitation. 

 

It’s the most vulnerable kiss I’d ever had. Kissing girls always felt like an expected journey for me—it was enough for me to press my tongue against her’s and she’d quake in my palms. A to Z in no time. But kissing Harry was an exploration; like grasping in the dark, catching air every time. The boy was so vulnerable in his kisses, pure as they were and unguarded, and by the time we were done, I had completed a thorough excavation of the boy’s mouth, between cavities and tongue and skin achingly sweet.

 

When I pull away, Harry’s eyes are wide as lily pads and his lips are swollen. 

 

“I don’t suppose you’ve kissed a boy before, then?” I tease and when Harry exhales a soft laugh, I count it as a win. I feel terrified almost; I’ve kissed a boy. And yet, it’s temporarily numbed by that very same act. 

 

“I can’t say that I’ve kissed a boy like you.” 

 

“Are you. . .was that alright?” I breathed into the dark space between our mouths. 

 

“You taste like malt and sugar.” the curly-haired hurricane replies in lieu of a response. 

 

“Okay.”

 

“I didn’t know malt was so sweet.”

 

“It isn’t usually.” 

 

“Hmm. Maybe it’s just you, then?” he bats his lashes, mirth in his eyes.

 

“You’re a charmer, aren’t you Harold?” I let out a surprised laugh. 

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I know a Harold. Must be confusing me with some other guy.” he laughs, head lolling against the wall. It gets quiet again and our gazes continue to travel openly on each other. 

 

“Harry?” I rasp, brushing my thumb against the swollen flesh of the boy’s lips. 

 

“Yes, Louis?” he mumbles against the flesh of my thumb.

 

“Was that, are you. . .” I wonder how to ask a question I have no right to know the answer to “this doesn’t have to matter if you’re with that guy.”

 

Harry’s brows draw together, his grasp where it lies on my shoulder tightening. “A guy? I haven’t got a guy, no, not that I know of.” He teased.  

 

“You know I saw you dancing with that blonde kid.”

 

“I dance with lots of people.” Harry grins mischievously. I laugh, almost embarrassed. But what was I to think? The way they’d twined together I would’ve bet he was another boy with another guy in yet another pub in the city, two lovers under neon lights. 

 

“I’m going to kiss you again, ok?” I rasped.

 

“Please,” Harry whispered. 

 

So I did, kiss him that is. My hand traveled to Harry’s neck, holding him there against the wall, lips finding his again and surging forward intently. Harry lets an unguarded groan fall from his lips, and I press even further, just to hear that keen again, high in his throat. Soft kisses escalate until I find myself sucking on the wet muscle of Harry’s tongue, the boy whimpering in my hold. The sound caused my eyes to open and I see Harry’s eyes closed, lost in the kiss, lashes brushing skin. Then, there’s a crash and a loud,  _ Merde!  _ ringing in the air. 

 

I pulled away, pushing myself off the wall in time for a group of guys to tumble outside, one of them retching against the wall as the rest stumble and curse. 

 

I blinked a few times, mind foggy. The dull throbbing in my swollen lips numbed as a chill ran through my skin and along the surface of my face. 

 

The group ambled on longer, throwing up and burping crudely, their curses ignited by smoke and punctured laughter. They finally start to stagger away then and disappear around the street corner. 

 

We were suspended in a tense quiet and if Harry was anything like I’d been, the realization of what just happened would’ve hit him like a freight train, ravishing him from the inside out.  But then again, Harry was always so vastly different from anyone I’d known, myself included. There I was, breathing like I’d just been running, fear prickling my insides when a giggle sounded in the air. 

 

I’d been attempting to quell my fright of almost being caught and there is Harry, laughing with a hand to his chest. I looked at him for a moment, the sheer absurdity of the situation getting to me. 

 

When Niall and Liam find me,  it’s to the sight of a certain curly-haired hurricane with a laugh like honey, pressed beside me against the dirty wall. I am the center of his sights and at that moment, it feels like the best and simultaneously most surreal place to be.

 

It’s terrifying and all-consuming and it cracks through me like a whip. 

 

It all changed after that, as all the inner workings of the universe do in a split moment.  Maybe if it hadn’t happened, if I hadn’t met the gaze of those emerald orbs, I could’ve pretended like my life had been going fine for a little while longer. But perhaps because it did in fact happen, and because the experience came over me like an unrelenting, vengeful force, knocking me down cold, in the end, I’m able to dwell in the painful aftershocks numbly. Found as a carcass brittle in dead energy, Harry Styles lit me up again, only to take the same verve with him in the wake of his absence.


End file.
